


Line

by MeansToOffend (goodmorning)



Series: Pick Me Up [8]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2017-2018 NHL Season, Detroit Red Wings, M/M, Pick-Up Lines, Touching, just so much touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-06 22:48:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14067267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodmorning/pseuds/MeansToOffend
Summary: "Larks’ hand lingers on Anthony’s lower back, the heat of it soaking through his shirt."





	Line

Larks’ hand lingers on Anthony’s lower back, the heat of it soaking through his shirt. He shivers, goosebumps rising on his arms, but doesn’t move away. Anthony almost wants to lean into the touch, to feel like Larks is his only connection to the real world, but he doesn’t do that either. He has no idea what this is, whether he’s reading it right. Larks is leaning past him, digging in his bag, and his hand on Anthony’s back can barely be steadying him, but here they are, and his nerves are shot to hell, singing Larks’ name in his head.

Anthony is still frozen, pretending to be on his phone, when Larks finally straightens up, tosses some sock tape to Witko, and slowly, steadily, smoothly drags his fingers along Anthony’s waist. His heart pounds in his throat and in his ears. Someone is talking to him, but he can’t make out the words; Larks’ eyes are bright and curious in front of him. Then Larks quirks an eyebrow, and Anthony realises it was Larks talking, and that he’s been asked a question.

“Oh, uh, sure,” he says. Larks grins at him, shoulders his bag, and, with a wave, heads out the door.

“What did he ask me?” he hisses at Ouells, not caring if he chirps him again for speaking ‘the wrong French, really, it’s almost mangled.’

“He wants to carpool with you tomorrow morning, and stop for coffee,” Ouells replies, looking far too amused, and Athy snorts at him from the corner, picking a stubborn knot out of his laces.

\--

It seems like it should be easy for Anthony, and it definitely _feels_ easy when Larks is touching him, but it’s not. The problem is this: Larks may touch Anthony an awful lot, but he touches everyone on the team nearly as much. Howie’s definitely been involved in some goalie hugs that lasted a lot longer than normal. Z’s certainly been snagged by various body parts for more “help, I think I’m ruining my life” conversations than Anthony wants to know about. And he’s pretty sure that not a single guy on the team has escaped Larks’ earnest hand-clutching pep talks.

Larks is just a tactile kind of guy; he clearly doesn’t mean anything by it, as Anthony constantly has to keep reminding himself, even if sometimes, it kind of feels like he does.

\--

Anthony parks the car at the first Starbucks he sees on the way to the arena. Before either of them unbuckle their seatbelts, Larks reaches over and squeezes his thigh. It’s the part just above his knee, nothing particularly suggestive, but it makes his breath catch, somewhere deep in his chest.

He can only hope that Larks is still too asleep to notice.

\--

They get their coffee, and, despite the fact that Anthony is thinking far too hard about trying _not_ to think about the feel of Larks’ hand on his thigh, they don’t get into any accidents.

He’s never actually carpooled with Larks before, never even arrived at the rink at exactly the same time, so he’s not exactly sure what to expect. Larks doesn’t try to hold his hand or pull him along by the arm, but he does stick close by Anthony’s side, so close that their shoulders knock together, hands brushing occasionally.

He feels the phantom tingle of their contact all through morning skate. Still, he does manage not to crash here too, doesn’t lose an edge or go crashing face-first into the glass, and that seems to him like some kind of victory. Coupled with the leftover pleasant feelings from Larks touching him, he comes off the ice feeling very, very happy.

Apparently he doesn’t hide it very well, because Abs slaps him on the back in the locker room and asks, “So, does she have a sister?”

“What?” asks Anthony, and, for something to do with his mouth other than talk, he takes a sip of his now sadly tepid coffee. 

“Are you saying your high right now _isn’t,_ like, an ‘I got laid’ one?”

And Anthony promptly chokes. “No, holy shit,” he says, after someone vigorously slaps him on the back a few times.

“If you say so,” says Abs, and, shooting him a final disbelieving look, wanders off. Anthony turns to thank whoever tried to stop him from dying right there in the locker room.

It’s Larks. Of course it’s Larks. Why should anything be simple right now when it can be Larks instead?

But Anthony plasters on his best smile, and says, “Thanks. For, you know, with the choking - well, you were there. It was literally just now and - just, thanks.”

“No problem,” says Larks, and smiles so, so easily. Anthony’s sure that he’s going to say something about that ridiculous word vomit, but he doesn’t. “Ready to go?”

“Oh, right,” Anthony says, relieved. “Yeah, come on.”

Larks stands a little too close on their way out, too, and Anthony could swear that Glenny throws a wink at him before they’re through the door.

\--

There are a number of places Anthony expects to ache when he wakes up - the thumb he’d broken as a child, the bruise on his calf from blocking a shot, the matching ones on his sides from a couple of the harder checks - and he’s not wrong about them; they do. What he doesn’t expect is to wake up with his dick this hard, throbbing painfully with every beat of his heart, demanding that he touch himself already. At this point it’s almost more of a surprise that he hadn’t rubbed off against his sheets in his sleep, woken up sticky and feeling ten years younger.

Anthony takes his cock in his hand, drags his thumb slowly over the head. The knot in the pit of his stomach slowly untwists and melts away, and he’s starting to really get into a rhythm when, all of a sudden, he imagines that it’s Larks touching him, Larks’ hand on his dick, jerking him off without any hesitation. Anthony comes almost immediately.

He’s pretty sure this is a sign that it’s already gone too far. Right now, though, he’s also pretty sure he doesn’t care.

\--

The team, as an entity, only go out together after wins. Personally, Anthony thinks scraping it out in the shootout against Ottawa probably shouldn’t count, but Z insists, grimly, that a win is a win. This difference of opinion is why Anthony is sitting alone at the bar - well, that and, possibly, the fact that he’d snapped at Dales for asking about Larks’ “touching thing.” It was probably an honest question, and Dales probably hadn’t meant to insinuate anything, and Anthony definitely feels guilty for taking it so badly, but he’s not tipsy enough to apologise yet. 

Hence, the bar.

He’s making his way through his second glass of beer slowly, so that he can put off going back to the team - a little too slowly, if the bartender’s constant checking on him is any indication. He sighs.

There’s no reason this should feel so difficult, but it does, and- 

Someone touches his shoulder, trails their fingers down his back, lets their hand rest just above his waistline. Whoever it is finally slips into the seat next to him, and he glances over.

It’s Larks. It’s only ever Larks. How could it be anyone else when it’s Larks he’s so messed up about?

But Larks removes his hand from Anthony’s back to flag down the bartender. He asks for a napkin, glances over his shoulder at the table, and, grimacing, orders a vodka shot as well. He takes it the second it comes, wrinkling his nose, and finally turns to Anthony.

“God, I hate vodka,” he says, conversationally. “Reminds me of the worst parts of college.”

“Why drink it then?” Anthony asks, ignoring the part of him that would have preferred “why are you over here?” or “why do you touch me all the time?” or even “will you do it again, but in private and with fewer clothes?”

“Z said it was tradition,” Larks says, glaring over his shoulder again. “He made Dales take one too.”

“Oh,” says Anthony, wishing he didn’t understand that. He means to change the subject, to keep Larks sitting there as long as possible, but Larks does it for him, jumping up and digging in his pockets. Eventually, he comes up with two Sharpies. Anthony watches in fascination as Larks makes an extremely confused face at the silver one, slipping it back into his pocket. He uncaps the red one, pulls the napkin towards him, and draws a line.

“Are we playing, like, Pictionary now?” Anthony asks. Larks gapes at him like he’s some kind of idiot. Well, he’s got a big dumb crush on the guy, so maybe he is. “A ruler,” he guesses.

Larks lets out a groan of frustration. “No, it’s-”

“The goal line.”

“That’s not-”

“A snake with back problems?”

“Manthy!” Larks says, a little louder than Anthony thinks he really needs to.

“What?” he asks, genuinely puzzled.

“It’s just a line, okay?”

“Well, I guessed goal line…”

“No,” Larks says, grabbing his wrist. He looks almost too serious. “It’s a pickup line, Manthy, I’m trying to pick you up here. With what you said to Dales, I thought…”

“But you touch everyone!” Anthony’s traitorous mouth exclaims.

Larks sighs. “Not like I touch you,” he says, and Witko grins toothily at them as Anthony drags them out.

\--

Anthony walks into his room first, Larks following behind. He’s not touching him yet, but his breath hot on the back of Anthony’s neck makes him strip off his shirt and turn around. Larks has already managed to lose all his clothes, leaning casually against the door, pale skin glowing in the reflected light of the muted television. 

Anthony licks his lips, once, a reflex. Larks grabs him by the hips, tugs him closer, runs his hands up Anthony’s chest until one is cupping his jaw. No-one has ever accused Anthony of being able to take a hint, but he can take this one; he leans down and kisses Larks. It’s easy to get lost in it; Larks is responsive, throwing an arm around Anthony’s neck, drawing him closer, and Anthony is giddy, ready to do whatever Larks wants for maybe forever.

When Larks relaxes his arm, Anthony kisses the hollow at the base of his throat, lacking words. “C’mere, I wanna touch your dick,” Larks mumbles over the top of his head, and Anthony has never taken his pants off faster.

Larks’ hand is even better than Anthony had imagined, because it’s _Larks._ He never wants it not to be Larks. How did he ever live without- “ _Larks,_ ” he groans, and Larks tightens his hand, speeding up as he does. 

Anthony has to rest his head on Larks’ shoulder at that, and Larks murmurs in his ear, “Yeah, Manthy? You like it? You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this, to touch you, to watch you fall apart with my hands on you.” 

“Fuck, Larks,” Anthony says, exhaling a shaky breath.

“Come on, Manthy,” Larks says, and everything is so, so hot, Larks’ hands on his dick, breath in his ear.

“I want-” Anthony comes, nerves alight everywhere Larks has touched him. 

By the time he gets it together, Larks is already jerking himself off, eyes closed, and he comes, shuddering, when Anthony kisses him.

\--

“I can’t believe you didn’t figure out how much I was touching you,” Larks says, out of the dark.

“I can’t believe you refused to just ask me out like a normal person,” Anthony replies.

“Okay, fair,” says Larks, and takes his hand.

\--

When he wakes up, sweating, Larks is clinging to him like an octopus, and Anthony doesn’t stop grinning for a week, at least. There are so many things worse than having Larks here next to him, no matter how gross he feels.

Besides, maybe he can convince Larks that they should shower together.

**Author's Note:**

> \- I was complaining about not knowing who to write in Western Conference fic but seriously, who the Frk is even on this roster?  
> \- (I'm not sorry about that pun at all, as anyone who's read the Sens fic knows.)  
> \- Have a fight? Take a shot. And it would be vodka, with the Russian Five and, later, Datsyuk.  
> \- Normally I handwrite one then type the previous one and edit it to meet the word count; that almost didn't happen here because the Red Wings lost _all of the games_ before I was done writing the fic after this one.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [i don't mind if you want me to (i do)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17722184) by [MeansToOffend (goodmorning)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodmorning/pseuds/MeansToOffend)




End file.
